


Span

by Templeton (StAnni)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Death, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 02:17:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16630985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/Templeton
Summary: But it doesn’t end well.  It ends a few hours after a rather intense session of hotel room fucking and Arthur, while lighting a cigarette, sees a missed call from Dom.  He frowns and dials to listen to the message while Eames bites his neck.  It ends with Arthur losing his smile completely, his face pale.  It ends with the world falling apart and everything, all of a sudden, going very, very wrong.





	Span

It is only around the second or third time they work together that Eames places him.

“I remember where I met you before, you were on the Thomas Gibson job, the one in Oslo like two years ago – you’re Nick Booker’s brother.”  
Arthur shakes his head with a short laugh, his smile is soft and easy “Nah, he’s, he’s not my brother. He said that because he is deeply, deeply homophobic. This is embarrassing, he’s my husband.” 

“You’re married to Nick?” Eames balks and Arthur gives a shrug as if to say, told you – embarrassing   
“Separated. For a year already.”

Eames cannot help but stare “You’re barely the age of consent.” And that makes Arthur laugh out loud, and the sound is heaven opening up and shining down on Eames’ jaded grey heart. He doesn’t tell Eames how old he really is but Eames is certain he is not far off. 

“You’re not married, I take it.”  
Eames answers plainly “Would be utterly surprised if I found someone who would have me, mate.” 

And there it is again, the dimples. 

*

At Mallory and Dom’s reception a year later, an hour or so down the line of the band packing up, Arthur ends up next to him, last at the bar. He smiles at him, raising his eyebrows slightly “Last beer?” He doesn’t like beer but he smiles and nods “Why not?”

He’s never been fantastic at small talk and that night is no different. He doesn’t have a question that will not seem like a blatant attempt at picking Arthur up – and he wants to pick Arthur up, but he does not want to be a buffoon – not around Arthur. 

And what he really wants to ask about is the thin scar sweeping from Arthur’s ear to his clavicle – barely visible, but just-just visible to someone who is a collector of scars himself. 

He doesn’t ask.

When Arthur slides a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, Eames desperately tries and fails to think of something clever to say. But his brain stops dead when Arthur catching his look misinterprets it as an objection to the cigarette, and Arthur smirks, “You mind?”   
Eames shakes his head, embarrassed.   
When Arthur dips his head away to exhale the smoke curls a ring above them and stays there, the cold air holding it in place. 

And then there is a mess of things that happens at once – Mallory, drunk and delirious swings over, her ivory dress twirling, Dom, red faced and happy grabs Arthur by the shoulder. “We have the winners!” and Mallory laughs next to Eames, curling into his shoulder. “Winners!” 

Later that evening, when there is nothing else to do but just to do something, Eames crowds Arthur into the guest house pantry and Arthur just looks at him, blankly, infuriatingly “I don’t think guests are allowed in here.”

Eames has Arthur that night, gripping the shelves for purchase, panting and pushing back – trying to keep them steady. It is crude and without any finesse – Arthur’s slacks and briefs pulled down just enough to provide Eames with access, Eames’s zipper down, his own briefs pushed impatiently to the side. They use spit and sweat.  
Arthur groans the first few minutes but after that they keep it down, they bite back their moans and Eames comes, sweat cooling between his shoulder blades, deep inside of Arthur.

After which they both pull apart. Arthur pulls up his slacks and Eames zips himself back up.

“I’m not really one for…you know…this type of thing.”

Eames smiles. “What? Sex?”  
And Arthur looks away, his face just the slightest tinge of pink “Casual sex.” 

It is beautiful and the world is in bloom. Eames shrugs, teasing “Well, let’s not overthink it.” 

*

It goes well for a month or two.

But it doesn’t end well. It ends a few hours after a rather intense session of hotel room fucking and Arthur, while lighting a cigarette, sees a missed call from Dom. He frowns and dials to listen to the message while Eames bites his neck. It ends with Arthur losing his smile completely, his face pale. It ends with the world falling apart and everything, all of a sudden, going very, very wrong.

*

It is only two years later when Dom calls Eames for an extraction and when he sees Arthur again. 

*

In two years Arthur has become someone, whilst recognisable on the outside, completely different to the man Eames remembers.   
Arthur has no ease any longer, he doesn’t smile and he is, for a lack of a better word, a simplified, focused version of the man he was before. His focus is undeterred and he does not engage in any familiarities other than a handshake.

In the two years that followed Mallory’s suicide Eames had heard stories about Arthur – most of these he did not believe to be true, specifically those that centred around a violent, sociopath without any sense of guilt or remorse. That was not the Arthur that Eames knew.

But then, four days into the job, Arthur walks up to the second architect and, in full view of the entire team, slits his throat without batting an eye. “What the fuck, Arthur!” Dom explodes, and understandably so – as Eames just stares in abject horror. Arthur looks Dom straight in the eye, holding his bloodied cuff away from his pants “He is working for Abel Dent.” And if that is an explanation it at least makes Dom pause before yelling “There are ways to do things, Arthur!” 

After that Eames not only avoids being alone in a room with Arthur, he avoids all rooms with Arthur.

*

When it is over he is relieved that he is the only one of the team heading to Kenya and he tries to wash the past two weeks from his brain with cheap vodka and red wine. 

*

And then two days later he gets the call from an unknown number – the noise of the market place in the background. “Yes?”

Arthur’s voice is quiet and monotone, as it is now, but it is also strange – forced, as if he is trying to sound even more psychopathic than usual, and it takes Eames a moment (after a chilling number of seconds) to figure out that Arthur is drunk “I’m in the market at the place with the blue roof.”

Eames, perplexed, tries to sound not-terrified “Arthur, you phoned me, James.” 

And Arthur, after a second, continues “It’s a market.” 

Eames catches on “You’re in Mombasa?” 

There is a moment and then it’s that same swallowed down tone “Do you know it? The blue roof?”

It is a struggle to get Arthur to come to his apartment and it is more of a struggle to get Arthur to drink some coffee. 

When Arthur finally sags forward Eames rubs his shoulder “What’s wrong, Arthur?” He doesn’t answer but he doesn’t pull away and looks at Eames, directly, for the first time in years. And for the briefest moment, Arthur’s eyes, those warm brown eyes, are the same eyes that looked up at him, so innocently, while licking his balls in the pantry those years ago.  
Then they shutter and Arthur rubs his face. “I had to come see this guy, Barry Mendo, about a job. So I… you know. Do you know Mendo?”  
Eames doesn’t take his hand away. “You’re still with Dom?”  
Arthur answers blankly. “At the moment we’re laying low.”

His voice is tired and it breaks Eames’ heart. Arthur is still way, way too young to be shackled like he is, like he has offered himself to be. And Dom is too fucking crazy to take responsibility for anything. 

“I don’t know Mendo.” Eames offers “But I can ask around…”

Arthur nods and his eyes are grave, staring in front of him. And then Eames takes his hand away and Arthur, as if leaning into the touch, looks at him. “I don’t even know what happened, Eames. He could have pushed her, I don’t know.” 

Their proximity is uncomfortable – because the subject is uncomfortable, Eames didn’t know Mall that well, but he certainly knows how much Cobb loved her. The idea of Cobb being responsible for his wife’s death is simply unfathomable. “I don’t believe that, Arthur. I don’t.” He says is hoping to dispel the doubt, the pain that Arthur is carrying, but Arthur’s reaction is quite the opposite of what he expects. 

Instantly icing over, his eyes turning cold and unreachable, he moves away from Eames, gets up and heads to the door “Do me a favour and keep this visit between us.”

Arthur against the world. He doesn’t wait for Eames to answer before he leaves.

After that Cobb calls him with some insanity about inception and when he walks into the warehouse the person that looks like Arthur and talks like Arthur, even this slanted version of Arthur, is not even close Arthur. 

The Arthur that was sweet and dimpled is long gone, that he knows – and he expect to be greeted by the cynical and suspicious Arthur he sobered up in Mombasa.   
The Arthur that greets him, however, is quiet and polite – but utterly devoid of any sincerity. This Arthur is frightening in his distance, and the way that he tips back on his chair, frowns – as if he is just another normal person and not some overtly toned-down doppelganger - is severely disturbing.

*

But there is an even darker turn - and opening his door to Arthur, sleek in grey and black at two in the morning, he finds it out.   
“You alone?”  
He nods and Arthur moves past him, swift and quiet – removing his tie.

Arthur only takes his jacket off when he pushes Eames down onto the hotel room bed, undoing the zipper of his slacks with one hand as he presses hard, down. The entire experience is, albeit overwhelmingly satisfying, unnerving. 

Afterwards he wakes up to Arthur smoking at the window – shirtless, a pale olive tone, a faded memory of sun against the . Eames feels his excitement stir in his groin as Arthur leans down to kill the cigarette in the ashtray at his feet. “You talk in your sleep” he says to Eames, amused. 

* 

This new Arthur, this Arthur is insatiable and they fuck almost every chance they get. This Arthur pushes him to his knees, makes him swallow Arthur down as Arthur, hand firmly behind Eames’ head, thrusts forward. This Arthur pulls him into the warehouse bathroom stall, turns around, shoves his pants down and braces himself against the plywood walls. This Arthur cannot get enough of Eames and moans for him, begs to be taken harder, longer, rougher. This Arthur comes with a shout, a white streak across Eames’ back, and then grabs Eames by the hips, shoving back inside.

It is thrilling and intensely pleasurable but Eames can find no place to hold on to with this Arthur – no purchase to his soul. He tells this Arthur about how, when he was thirteen, and it was his first trip to London, his younger brother ran out towards the statues at Leicester Square. He tells him how Louis scrambled to the top of the stairs and started climbing one of the lions. He watches Arthur’s eyes as he tells him how, when Eames ran closer how he saw his brother’s hands, his little fat fingers clamber …Louis was five and he was fast. He waits for any register of emotion, any emotion, when he explains, “When I got to the lion, he was gone. That second I didn’t see him anymore. We never found Louis.” 

Arthur, having listened, blinks and runs his hand through Eames’ hair. His fingers are cold.

*

They fuck like that, because that is what they do and that is all they do, for a good three years. They fuck everywhere, on every job they take together, in every hotel room they rent together, and eventually in Eames’ apartment in Mombasa where Arthur finds him, every now and again, and claws at him, tears at his clothes, grab his cock and falls to his knees.

*

Chris is a lawyer from Paris and he agrees to have drinks with Eames on a forgery job. Chris is funny and lacks all of Arthur’s polished sleekness, all of his experience. They make out like teenagers in the back of the bar and Chris comes within seven minutes of getting a hand job from Eames under the table. He is barefaced and utterly hopeless – a mess – and he has Eames, he has him hook line and sinker, from the moment he breathes “Fuck…me…that was…wow.” 

*

Four weeks later Eames has still not gone back home to Mombasa and nine weeks later he asks Yusuf to use his spare key, dig out a few of Eames’ old photographs of Louis, and sell the rest of his belongings before locking the apartment up and putting it on the market.

*

When he sees Arthur again, almost a year after having met Chris, they are in a library in Crete of all places. Arthur, on his way out of the library, a book under the arm and his light suit and a white tie-less shirt gracefully complimenting his dark glasses, stops dead when he sees Eames, and Eames, in utter shock, lifts his hand in a surprised wave. Behind him Chris smiles, friendly, and waits for Eames to introduce him.

“You on a job?” is what Eames can muster and Arthur gives Chris a glance. “Oh, this is my boyfriend, Chris, Chris this is an old colleague of mine, Arthur.” 

Arthur, not removing his glasses or offering anything more than a nod, shakes Chris’ hand. Eames tries again “What are you doing in Crete?”

And Arthur finally answers, his voice flat “Ariadne’s got a place here. I’m doing research.” 

Eames nods and Chris glances between them. To that Arthur makes his way further down the stairs, without offering a goodbye and Eames watches him go. Chris smiles, a bit embarrassed probably, “Strange guy.” 

*

Of course there is a message from Arthur on his phone not an hour later and he meets Arthur, against the advices of all of his better angels, at a hotel.

“Who the fuck is this boyfriend?” is what Arthur bites out before he starts to unbutton his shirt.

And like that, Chris is history.

*

Another year later the drive to the airport is quiet and stiff and the argument from this morning hangs heavy between them. 

Yusuf’s chatter about the new twist to the serum compounds the fact that this will not be resolved before they reach the airport. 

Eames glances over at Arthur who is stoic, staring out of the window. He feels irritated and panicked – they have only just started and now it feels as if it may already be over. 

Arthur doesn’t move and when they finally stop he is the first one out of the cab, swiftly grabbing his bag and heading inside the building. 

Eames is stuck accompanying Yusuf, who is frustratingly oblivious. 

Arthur doesn’t look back as he heads to the express check in line and when Eames finally makes it through he doesn’t see Arthur again until he passes him on the plane, at which point in time his own anger has thoroughly overgrown his panic and he gives Arthur an icy look of absolute disinterest as he passes.

* 

Ariadne dies on a Wednesday. Nobody knows for sure, but the prevailing opinion is that after years of overworking herself, her heart simply gave out. She is thirty four when she dies and she leaves behind her husband, Dom – now twice widowed, two step-children and a daughter Amelia, named for her mother.

She also leaves behind Eames, her best friend, especially in the years after his split with Arthur soured. And she leaves behind Arthur, a jilted now former acquaintance and, Eames knows now, after Ariadne having confessed after a few glasses of wine years and years ago, an on and off lover.

*

Chris attends the funeral with him and Arthur arrives with Dom, carrying Amelia on his hip. Chris holds Eames hand tight as they lower the casket – or perhaps Eames grips Chris’ hand tight. It is a dark, dark day and when Arthur tries to offer his condolences, Eames turns away and makes his way back to Chris, who is preparing him a plate of finger food.

*

The last time they talk is a few days after the funeral.

Arthur is drawn and tired and he leans on his elbows as he waits for Eames to sit down. He looks like death warmed up and Eames mentions it, unkindly, but Arthur smiles and shrugs “I feel like it.”

The talk, which is Arthur’s idea to begin with, admittedly does not go very well. Eames watches Arthur without much discernible interest and Arthur seems to falter ever so slightly as he tries to explain to Eames how life has changed with Dom and the children – how life has changed without Eames.

“If you would have me, James, I would have you.”

It would be easy to agree. It would be the easiest thing in the world to agree and Eames knows that. He knows that giving his heart half an inch over his mind, would end up with Chris waiting, alone, in the hotel room, until he eventually packs up again, goes back to his sister’s house again.

It would be so easy.

“I don’t want you, Arthur.”

The words are cold and foreign in Eames’ throat. He swallows against them. His head is thick with tears and regret and missing, just missing Ariadne, and Arthur and the years and years that are now less than memories.

But the words are the only words Eames has in him.

Arthur’s eyes, soft brown and innocent, flicks down immediately – away. Gone.

Eames would never see those eyes again.

“Who is this Arthur?” he has to ask.

“What do you mean?” Arthur’s voice is quiet, already defeated, broken.

“I mean, who is this Arthur?” Eames asks again, perhaps coldly, perhaps cruelly.

Arthur doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move.

*

Arthur dies on a Wednesday. Eames puts the phone down before Dom can tell him anything else. His world, already grey with loss, turns black in the span of two stuttered heartbeats.


End file.
